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I am lying on MindReader, pretty much, in our favourite position on the sofa. I have a glass of wine and a movie on and NO NOVEL WRITING.

“I can’t believe I can actually say I’ve written a novel now,” I say.

“Well done,” he says, kissing my forehead.

I drum my fingers quietly on his chest while he continues to watch the film.

It is not done, even though I wrote the last sentence. More needs to be said. And edited – oh the editing. And yet, it is my baby, and I love it just the way it is.

I think back to what OldTutor said in September.

Write yourself out of it. Don’t write yourself further into it… I don’t know how to do it; finding that out is part of it. It’s essential that you should do this, in my opinion.

And – whatever he meant; I pondered it for hours – I did it. I wrote a novel with no ill people in it and with characters who never considered their energy.

And in doing so, I wrote myself back to life.